


a second chance at firsts

by dollylux



Series: love injections [1]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, M/M, POV First Person, Prince Lestat Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Marius propositions Armand with a night of sex, aided by Fareed's injections. (during and post-Prince Lestat)





	a second chance at firsts

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so after 21 years of loving these two, I finally wrote them. I love the idea of Fareed's hormone injections, of it allowing vampires to feel desire and have sex and produce semen (yaaayyy!), so I couldn't leave this idea alone. I love how special it makes their first time together, how exceptional it is after all their years together (and apart, of course). Basically, this let me write first time _during_ an established relationship. How fucking amazing is that?!
> 
> (A Lestat & Louis version of this will be coming shortly. Obviously.)
> 
> Also: written in first person POV because it felt in keeping with The Vampire Chronicles. <3

The thought had come unbidden on that cold November night at Trinity Gate, in the midst of a gathering of blood drinkers. Fareed had been talking, trying his best to explain the science of things to a group of creatures who tended towards poetry over biology, as a general rule.

But I, with my meager knowledge, understood the basic concept.

Fareed had successfully impregnated a female doctor with Lestat’s sperm and produced a child, one who was fully grown and magnificent to behold. Viktor stood nearby and listened as we all did, much more at ease with this revelation than anyone else present, save maybe the dark-haired girl in his arms. His likeness to his father was uncanny, startling to us all.

I held in my questions, focusing instead on masking my thoughts from those around me, driven by the potential humiliation of what exactly I proposed to speak to Fareed about as soon as the lecture ended. 

Fareed turned to me as the others rose and dispersed, his large, dark eyes focused and open, no hint of mocking in them. I opened my mind with no small amount of relief, letting him in and asking my questions without words, showing him, perhaps, why I was so eager for his assistance.

“Speak to him,” Fareed said aloud, his voice crisp, confidential. “The two of you may come to me whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” I replied with a gracious bow of my head, careful not to look over at the small figure to my right, yards away, but the sensation of his gaze has always been like a touch. I was thankful that my mind was closed to him, that he hadn’t known the true nature of my brief interaction with Fareed.

I turned to Amadeo after a stolen moment to collect myself, to gather some small courage, and our eyes met through a small sea of bodies, over the years and hurts and circumstances that separated us. The fire was still there between us, no doubt of that, as present and consuming as it ever was.

He made his way to me without seeming to step at all, as if his will alone had brought him to my side. Years never changed us, not in immediately noticeable ways, and so my Amadeo was as small next to my Nordic height as he’d always been, the top of his head barely reaching my shoulder. I wondered not for the first time if it bothered him, with a soul as immense as his, that his body would never catch up.

“You look wicked,” Amadeo said in that soft tone of his, one that would sound innocent if I didn’t know him so well. There was a glint in his eye that matched the small twist to his mouth, a wink of flesh flashing beside his smile that nearly brought me to my knees. Surely he knew this, has always known this. No telepathy needed to know how lost I’ve always been to him.

“Wicked,” I retorted, flashing him an easy smile as I slipped an arm around his slight shoulders, my customary red velvet cloak draping protectively over him as I did. “Now, Amadeo, when have I ever been truly wicked?”

“Oh, you’ve kept it hidden from me, sure,” he replied as we walked with deceptive slowness through the thinning crowd, headed without mention to the Tudor library he’d had made just for me, to suite my archaic and cluttered tastes. I adored him for it. “But something’s made you smile like a little boy, and it’s a little alarming that it may require a doctor’s expertise.”

I held off on any reply until we reached our destination, what I’ve come to think of as my space in Amadeo’s home. The fireplace hosted a cheerful little fire, and the small lights about the room had been turned on, casting a honeyed glow through the large library. I sat in my usual chair behind the large table functioning as a desk, and I was maybe too surprised when Amadeo hopped right up onto the table itself, his short legs clad in skintight black denim and dangling off the side, feet nowhere near touching the ground.

I loved him. Painfully so.

“Out with it,” he prompted, ever the modern child, those brown-red curls dragging his shoulders as he pressed his hands to the edge of the desk on either side of him and leaned forward the slightest bit. Perhaps he’d fed already this evening, because his face was heated and fleshy, cheeks as round as they’d ever been in those long ago nights in Venice when I could smell the sunshine on his warm skin as I traversed his lush little body in the sanctuary of my bed, our bed. The thought of it made my heart race, and the need to blush was within me, but it would likely never translate to the marble of my ancient face. 

“Do you remember our bed, Amadeo?” I said suddenly, not meaning to say those things at all. I dropped my eyes and let them catch on the sight of his knees through his clinging, trendy jeans, on the fine jut of bones moving like liquid beneath the fabric as his swung his legs. I heard him draw a deep breath, a small give in his otherwise legendary, perfect composure.

“In Venice,” I continued, unable to stop. “The embroidered silk pillows, dozens of flowers stitched there. The satin sheets and the rich chenille covers, the curtains that hid all, that secret-keeping red--”

“Your red,” he whispered, the words close, like they’d been spoken against my ear.

“I never loved my bed until you were in it,” I told him, an admission too painful for me to give without touching him, but I managed. My hand curled in on itself on the chipped and beaten oak table, so near his luscious young thigh. “It was merely decorative before, a place to catnap, perhaps. But from the moment I laid you there among the pillows and drew the curtains, it became the things for which a bed was made.”

“And what are those, Master?” More velveteen words, warmer than the fire. The tip of Amadeo’s small foot, clad only in a precious black sock, rested on my knee, his leg stretched out to do so.

“Rest,” I said, trying to maintain some dignity, some sense of calm. My traitorous hand left the table and ventured down to cover his foot, bringing my chair closer so he could rest the length of it along my thigh. “Safety. Passion.”

“My whole world was that bed.” It was such a confession that I had to look back up, had to meet those eyes I knew so well, behold the face I found so beautiful it pierced me, a blade through the heart. He had me and he knew it, and I let him know it. “The days with the boys were wonderful, were always so exciting, but the nights were my focus. Waiting for the moment you came to us and swept me away, took me to bed--”

“Darling,” I said with a deep sigh. I couldn’t help it. “Oh, my darling. You still drive me to such madness. Like I’m a mortal man and--”

“Tell me what you were discussing with Fareed,” Amadeo cut in, so clever, his toes wiggling under my palm. His eyebrows were raised, his sweet, heart-shaped face so animated that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Ahh, now who’s wicked?” My other hand slid beneath his foot, fingers tucking up into the delicate arch, tickling him. He jerked but didn’t remove the foot held in my hands, that dimple coming back with exquisite timing. I sighed, so put upon.

“Very well, Amadeo,” I said, as if I was indulging him and not about to beg. “I found the discussion this evening very interesting. And the possibilities of it may be rewarding for many of us, may skip completely over the thought of procreation and instead focus on--”

“You want to have sex,” Amadeo said.

“Amadeo!” I admonished, startled and absolutely delighted. Amadeo merely lifted one of those eyebrows again.

“Well?” he said with a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “Is that not what you were getting at?”

“After all this time, you’re still the damnedest child,” I replied warmly, cupping his foot as if it was his face, thumbs stroking over the fine bones above and the curve below. “But… yes. I suppose it was.”

“So, who’s the lucky lady?” Amadeo asked, the words carefully chosen, his eyes moving about the room with steady boredom. His foot went tense in my hands.

I sighed again.

“This is not going at all the way I envisioned,” I mumbled, slumping over. I rested my forehead on the knee of Amadeo’s nearest me, mollified for the moment by how quickly one of his delicate hands came to rest on the back of my head, his fingers sliding through the white blond strands, sifting idly. 

“Say what you want, Master,” he said quietly, “and it will be yours without reservation.”

I drew a long, slow breath, raising my head with care so as not to disturb his hand, my chair now turned toward him so that I was practically between his legs.

“Let us try this thing,” I said as his fingers slid down and came to rest on my cheek caressingly. I leaned into the touch and fought the way my eyes wanted to close, to savor. “Let us get these injections and see what they do, how they make us feel. I want to feel as a mortal man does with a boy of your beauty beneath him. With a boy I love so very much. I want to give you what you begged of me so long ago, what I had no desire to give, what I deprived you of when you most needed it.”

“Master,” he said softly.

“I want to give you pleasure,” I continued, one of my hands moving to his other foot until I had both of his exquisitely small ankles in my grip, his legs falling open for me with delicious ease. I moved my chair in closer, ever nearer. “I want to get lost inside of you and watch your face when you spend, when you feel me spending into you. I want to make up for all those nights I sent you away to other arms when we both knew you were mine. Only mine.”

“Always yours.”

He didn’t seem to move at all, but suddenly he was in my lap, such a tiny weight draped over my monstrous, unyielding body. I hadn’t yet fed, hadn’t in quite some time, and so I worried at how I felt to him, at my coldness beneath him, if he found it repellent in the face of all this carnal talk. He wore a handknit black sweater of lush, bulky yarn, overly big and hitting him mid-thigh. The sleeves were too long and nearly hid his hands beneath, and the collar of the thing was wide, balletic, so much that it hung off one shoulder, exposing an alluring expanse of moonlight white skin and the curve of his collarbone. 

He wrapped his arms around my neck and settled fully against me, his belly snug to my own, inner thighs cradling my waist. He looked utterly alive and hungry for whatever I was, right at that moment. I left my composure somewhere on the polished wood floor beneath us and reached up to embrace him, drawing him in even closer, my mouth parted as I finally let my eyes close. I breathed in deep the scent of human blood on his breath and the incense smells caught in his hair and his clothing, his sweet perfume. 

“Is this ‘yes’, young one?” I managed to ask, breathy though the words were. I was overly aware of his exposed throat, the temptation of it too much for it to be accidental on Amadeo’s part.

“Could words say yes more plainly than my body is right now, sweet Master?” A hand cupped the back of my head once more, exerting gentle pressure to draw me forward, closer, guiding me to that succulent neck of his. I could feel his curls about my face, could feel his lips kissing at my ear, my hair, his hands restless as they stroked through its long strands. He moved above me as if we were already injected with this miracle potion, as if it was time for me to be inside of him, to move in him as deep as I’ve always felt when my teeth have sank into his flesh.

“Yes,” he hissed, so soft that even I scarcely heard it. My fangs pierced his throat and I tasted his heartbeat, and the first gush of blood over my tongue made me shake down to my very bones.

 

We went to Fareed together on a night weeks later, when the twins were buried in the garden at Trinity Gate and Amel had gone safe and silent within Lestat. So much had passed that for days, weeks I had been hesitant to broach the subject with Amadeo again at all. What if too much had happened now, and he’d had a change of heart? What if he felt there was too much that needed to be done for us to be distracted by such trivialities? How would I deal with that rejection from my sweet cherub? Could I deal with it?

But Amadeo, as always, surprised me.

“Come, Master,” he said from the open doorway of my library early one evening, startling me out of my devoted copying of some ancient tome recovered from the remains of Maharet’s Amazonian compound. 

I looked up to find him almost smiling, his weight tipped forward so that he seemed balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to hop or jump or simply dash off at a speed so great that even I wouldn’t be able to follow. He’d dressed for me, wearing a pale sky blue poet’s shirt of Lestat’s time, one with full bishop sleeves and piles of intricate lace gathered at the neck and along the edges of each sleeve. His pants were a fine deerskin leather, so soft as to feel unreal, the fabric dyed a brilliant cyan-blue that clung so tightly to Amadeo’s fine legs that it seemed to me that he had been sewn right into them. The darkest of midnight blue boots clung to his calves without buckles or noticeable laces, the toes coming to a jaunty point that made his boyish feet seem almost adult sized. A ring graced each finger, a rainbow of colors twinkling above his knuckles. His hair was long and full, more vibrant than even his most energetic of days in Venice as a boy, every single thing about him carefully put together and presented at my door like a gift.

I stood in sheer reverence.

“We both know that I would follow you straight into hellfire,” I said sweetly, but in all seriousness, “but where are we going, my beautiful child?”

“It’s time,” he said. He held out his right hand, the sapphire and moonstone glinting in the light. “We’re going to see Fareed tonight.”

I stopped halfway to the door, my arms falling to my sides as the most curious heat spread over my face, flaming bright at my cheeks. I prayed it didn’t color my skin.

“I see,” I said, stammering and humbled, suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands or where to look. The silence passed between us, excruciatingly bare.

For the first time, Amadeo looked unsure.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked, his hand lowering slowly, his expression carefully neutral.

What sheer agony to not be able to read his mind, to not share my own true thoughts with him without needing to speak a word!

I closed the distance between us instantly, reaching for that hand before it had a chance to come to rest. I brought it up to my lips and covered it in kisses, a peasant kissing the rings of a princeling.

“No, no, no,” I whispered against his skin, his delicate knuckles. “No, my love. Never. Never that.”

He allowed me this, and there was a faint smile on his face when I finally met his gaze, his eyes filled with nothing but warmth, but carefully protected love that has survived the centuries, against all odds.

I wanted to fall to my knees right there.

“I didn’t wish to rush you, or push you,” I confessed, barely a whisper, his hand still against my lips, his fingers curled over my larger ones. “I desire you in every way one being could another. I love you in all ways, Amadeo. Please never doubt that.”

The smile broke into a sudden grin, his fingers sliding between my own, lacing our hands together so he could tug me forward, pulling me bodily out of my dusty library.

“Master, I was only teasing you. But I appreciate the poetry.” He walked ahead of me like a child, pulling me along by the hand and glancing back with the sweetest smiles, his curls tossed this way and that with each movement.

I was helplessly entranced.

“I am hardly dressed for the occasion,” I told him as we traveled the long hallways, taking the steps up and up and up, heading for the roof, no doubt. “I couldn’t possibly be seen like this. I haven’t changed in two days.”

“Clothing doesn’t matter,” he said without a hint of irony, dressed to the nines as he was. “I wore this for you, not Fareed.”

We found ourselves in the attic where a few blood drinkers mingled, talking in shadowed corners while music played softly. I marveled at Amadeo’s home, at how he hosted so many immortals in the ways I used to let humans into my palaces to keep me company. He figured out the trick. 

I came to a stop just as we reached the door for the roof, not caring at all who else overheard.

“And what if I wished to dress for you, Amadeo? In my old finery?”

Amadeo turned then, caught as he was between the closed door and my equally unmoving body. His hand was still clasped in my own. I could feel the soft press of his heartbeat beneath his skin. He met my eyes through his long black lashes, more beautiful than any artificial ones contrived in this century, than any cosmetic could possibly fake.

“I only need what’s beneath this old robe, Marius,” he whispered, calling me by my name and shaking me to the core because of it. “Trust me, you won’t be wearing it for long.”

With that, he turned once again and opened the door, the full blast of a New York winter hitting us brutally. The stars were brilliant and the silken sky was bare of any clouds above. I could hear the faint clatter of the door as he took off running across the roof, wind whipping his hair as he headed for the edge. I knew what he meant to do before he did it, and I rushed to catch up, to overtake him, and I caught him up in my arms and in the warmth of my cloak before he could jump off the building and take to the sky. He burrowed against my chest and wrapped his arms around me, safe from the freezing air beneath my heavy red velvet as I flew us out of Manhattan and towards Paris where I knew Fareed and Seth were now.

 

It took nearly three hours to reach Paris, and the sky was lightening along the easternmost edges of the city when we arrived. Hours lost, and dawn had found us early. He directed me with silken lips against my ear to his beautiful, palatial home in Saint-German-de-Prés, that fabled neighborhood in which existentialism drew its first breaths and Oscar Wilde drew his last. 

I kept him in my arms until we were in the quiet parlor of his building, the whole space alive with the Undead, as Amadeo so loved to call them, music playing and voices ringing out in thickly carpeted rooms as if the sun wasn’t making its way to the horizon and above at this very moment. 

He stood beside me, conflicted between the etiquette required of the master of the house and the consuming submission of being mine. I took the decision from him and lifted him once more, propping him on my hip like our very first encounter in that stinking brothel half a millenia ago, and carried him resolutely up the magnificent staircase.

“Master, really,” he sighed, but I felt his arms slide around my neck indulgently, pliant as he ever was in my embrace, “I am older than this very building. I learned to walk centuries ago. Before you ever even came along, as it turns out.”

“What a waste of time,” I declared upon reaching the landing, shifting him from my hip to my front, his round bottom caught up in both my hands now. “When I could easily spend all my immortal life carrying you just like this.”

“Oh, really,” he said, deadpan. My world was him now, nothing but his face before me, and I forgot the impending sun and our destination in favor of leaning him against the shining wooden railing that overlooked the main parlor and taking my time to study his beauty here, in this place. 

“Mm,” I replied absently with a sure nod. His thighs were hooked around my ribs now, high up as he was propped, his pristine boots, not having touched the ground outside on this continent yet tonight, crossed behind my back. Subjects, I supposed they could be called, were milling about, some passing us without a pause in their conversations, but all saw us. All noticed. And how could they not? Their host was exquisite.

“Everywhere. To the theatre. To the cafes. To the clothiers. To Court. To hunt.” He didn’t raise his eyebrows, but his eyes glinted with amusement, his fingers lost in my wind-tangled hair, patiently working out the knots.

“And why not?” I asked, pulling him tight to me, my body pressed to the railing, the wood creaking ever so slightly. 

“I can see us now,” he said with a sigh, “Me in your arms in some dark alley, pointing out a serial rapist for my evening meal. You dashing forward and tossing me at him so I can take him.”

“See? It would work splendidly.” The kiss I left on his chin was chaste and adoring, and his helpless laugh was its own reward. He slipped off the railing and back into my arms completely, nodding us in the direction of his rooms, which I knew well enough from passing and from selfish, lonesome desires to know their interiors with an undeserved intimacy.

“Will you promise me something?” he said upon reaching the doors to his suites, timed so that I paused before opening them.

“Anything,” I said, without hesitation.

He looked vulnerable in that moment, in the low lit hallway, his hair a wildling nest of battered curls, his eyes like molten, bottomless liquid, his every story contained within them. 

I would have destroyed the entire world for him in that moment.

“That you’ll never treat me as anything other than this. Other than a child who belongs to you, a young one in your charge, in your thrall. Be stubbornly ignorant of all my centuries and all my sins and see only the innocence I had when I was first yours. Before it was stolen from me.”

He cut me to the quick, and the sharp intake of my breath surely revealed that. He reached in and got right to the heart of our pain without speaking of it explicitly, and his eyes never once wavered from my own as he waited for my response.

And how could I tell him that he was never truly innocent, that Russia and religion and man’s cruelty had taken such virtue from him long before he found himself in our shared city, our Veneto, that all my time with him had been spent trying to undo all those wrongs, to erase not sins but the very idea of sin? 

But he was right, in his own way. Against all that, everything that had happened to him in his very short, painful mortal life and the long dark of the one I’d given him after, there was an indefatigable purity to him, a guilelessness that I didn’t create and the savage world had never managed to wholly destroy. 

Amadeo wasn’t one side of any coin. He was always both sides, two souls at war within one small, divine body, the one somehow contained at that very moment in my arms. I kissed him again, but it was profane this time, the soft lap of my tongue slipping into his waiting mouth. I shivered with need of him, with undying love.

“You will always be my child,” I whispered against his lips, the words dampened by shared saliva as his eyelashes stroked over my white cheek. “Until my dying day and yours and forever beyond both. I swear it to you, my love.”

He curled up against me then, face tucked into the side of my neck. He was quiet and soft in his soul, and the house had already started to empty, to ready for sleep beyond us. His rooms were sprawling and empty, and I locked the door before crossing the room to the bed along the far wall.

The bed that was a careful, loving twin of the one we shared so long ago.

It was draped in scarlet; velvet curtains so soft and heavy that even I felt their weight upon parting them to lay him down, the pillows the very same silk as our long ago sanctuary, the flowers stitched on them so fine that it had to be done by vampiric hands. I reached beneath the pillows and dragged down the covers while he kept his arms around me, and I lifted him only enough to settle him on the warm sheets, flannel for the bitter French winter. Chenille hid beneath the brocade duvet, a fabric worthy of being against his bare skin, so I set about uniting them immediately.

His boots were a mystery for a humiliating moment, but he only lay quietly and watched me find their secret zippers, watched me smooth my hands over his suddenly revealed calves and drop kisses on his azure socked feet. The sun was rising beyond the secured walls of this Parisian house, and my Amadeo was fast succumbing to it. The pants and shirt were easy, and suddenly he was disarmed and bare for me, a startling drop of white on the blood red bed. 

I disrobed without care, my cloak caught in a small hand before it hit the ground. I glanced up to find Amadeo gazing at me from beneath sleepy, lowered lashes as he pulled the red velvet of my tattered cloak to himself.

“Cover me in it,” he said softly as he tried in vain to do just that with one hand. 

My throat tight, I obeyed, covering his small body with a fabric too dirty and too mistreated to be given such an honor, but he settled as soon as it was around him, eyes closing once again, wild, tousled hair spread on the silken pillow. 

I joined him as quickly as I could, slipping under the covers and pulling them up over us both as the sleep of death sought me out, and not a soul alive or dead could fault me for reaching beneath the velvet covering him to gather him up to my cold body, tucking him along my front spoon style so I could hold him, keep him safe while the world awakened outside our refuge.

 

“We’re nearly ready,” Fareed said, fingers flying over the tablet clasped in his lovely, dark hand. Two immortal assistants flitted about Amadeo’s chamber, hooking up machines near the bed for and measuring out syringes of a clear liquid that I now knew was a batch of hormones. 

Amadeo sat beside me in a matching carved walnut curule chair, perfumed and powdered and wearing just a slip of a silk robe that hit scandalously high on his thighs, the sleeves wide, kimono style that all but hid his hands, the fabric a veritable explosion of flowers in countless shades of blue and teal and green. He’d been quiet during the setup and the initial conversation, and I wondered suddenly what Fareed thought of Amadeo, what he thought of us for indulging like this.

“It isn’t as unusual a request as you may think,” he replied to my thought quietly, his eyes darting over the screen before him. He turned it off after a moment and focused all his attention on us, looking first at me and then at Amadeo for a long moment. “Only a couple more questions, then we will administer the final injection.”

Things had improved since Lestat’s sexual interlude in the nineties, and I was pleased to learn that Amadeo and I wouldn’t have to be attached to tubes that fed us the hormone intravenously while we romped. The potion would be time-released, enough to last us the remainder of the night.

I motioned for Fareed to continue.

“First, and this is strictly professional and will remain confidential, I wondered if I might be allowed to observe your coupling, or at the very least record it. The cameras would only take minutes to set up--”

“No,” Amadeo said, just as I opened my mouth to make a considering sort of sound. I looked over at him in surprise, at a loss for what exactly to say after such a definitive response. He stared straight ahead at Fareed, his expression unreadable. I glanced at Fareed and found a small, knowing smile on his face. I raised my eyebrows, clearly the only one at a loss here.

“Maybe at a later time,” my boy amended, but his tone remained resolute. “But tonight is ours.”

“Very well,” Fareed replied with a slow bow of his head. “A later time.” 

He seemed distracted by his tablet, but I realized after a moment that he was fidgeting, maybe stalling.

Amadeo sat stock still, every inch the painted cherubim, his face a mask of serenity and patience that hid a vast sea of emotions that rarely surfaced, if ever. I wanted to reach for him, to clasp his hand, to draw him into my lap, but I respected his desire to be an equal here, in this moment. 

“My final request is to be allowed a semen sample from both of you. I give my word that neither will be used for procreation of any sort, and they will only be studied and preserved in my private lab.”

“You may have some of mine,” Amadeo said, his fingers twitching ever so slightly on his bare, pale thighs. “But not his.”

I couldn’t hide my bewilderment then.

“My precious boy, do you care to explain this to me? Are you answering for me now? Why is it you will allow our dear doctor your own sample but refuse to--”

“Your semen will be inside of me, and that is where it will remain. It’s not up for discussion.” I could have sworn that I saw the faintest flush spread over his cheeks, but he didn’t so much as blink. 

I met Fareed’s eyes without a single word to say to that, and his grin was so sudden and so bright that I was nearly blinded. 

“As you wish, Armand,” he said with a gentle laugh. He stood up and offered his hand first to me and then to Amadeo, gesturing for the female blood drinker turned doctor to come over with our very last injections. “Thank you, Flannery.”

Dr. Flannery Gilman, the brilliant, brave woman who spawned a child of the Brat Prince himself, didn’t bother to hide her smile as she leaned over me and slipped a needle into the crook of my arm to feed me her magic potion. She did the same with Amadeo, her thumb covering the tiny puncture after she removed the needle.

“Get it, hon,” she whispered to him, giving him a wink and a gentle squeeze on the arm before she stood up and hurried away. Amadeo let out a quick breath of laughter, his eyes shining and secret as he lowered his gaze to his own lap.

“Yea gods,” I sighed with a dramatic roll of my eyes just to see him smile again, and he didn’t disappoint me. He hopped up from the chair and stood beside mine, strangely bashful in his short, gorgeous robe. His hands were twisting up together behind his back, his feet shifting over one another in a manner most often seen in young girls, mortal ones at that. 

I couldn’t help but reach over and slide a hand over his smooth thigh, cupping the fleshy back of it and moving up, up, only slowing down when I felt the tight swell of his ass. My hand was fully beneath the robe now.

Fareed stood nearby and watched us in silence, and I could hear the increased speed of his young heart, could see the way he watched my hand and stared at Amadeo’s naked legs. It was plain to see that he was powerfully drawn to him, to what was about to occur between us. The man in me was preening, confident as a peacock and wanting to show off my beautiful darling and what I could do to him. But if Amadeo wanted this kept private, I would honor that.

“How are you feeling?” Fareed asked, his voice low, soft. He addressed both of us, but his eyes were on Amadeo.

“Good,” Amadeo said, the word slipping out on a sigh. He was moving with my hand, rocking ever so slightly as I massaged the back of his thigh and teased along the bottom curve of his ass. His arm found its way around my neck, but he stayed facing forward, gazing up into Fareed’s eyes with a wicked sort of obedience. No doubt he knew exactly how captivating Fareed found him.

I realized with a start that the organ between my legs was pulsing with my heart, was filling out and stiffening beneath the flimsy fabric of my fresh, blue velvet robe, the head of it rubbing against the velvet and sending a shiver all over my body.

“Amazing,” I said in wonder. I stared down at it, too startled to touch it just yet.

Fareed laughed outright, a lovely, rich sound that brought me out of my self-obsessed reverie, and I noticed only then with a small amount of panic that everyone had left the room and Fareed was at the door.

“The machines by the bed are connected to electrodes that--”

“Fareed,” I said, pleading with as much dignity as I could. My hand trembled on the arm of the chair, and I was stunned at how instinctive it was to reach for my hardening cock.

“They’ll monitor the two of you. Red button if you need me. I can administer more of the hormone if it’s required.”

A pause.

“Have fun.”

With that, he pulled the door closed, leaving me with one hand clutching the soft flesh of Amadeo’s thigh while the other inched closer to the emerging shape between my legs. I closed my eyes and forced myself to take a deep breath, to relax my bruising grip on Amadeo’s ass and to not just grab myself like an overeager virgin.

“Master,” Amadeo said softly.

I hummed, low and pleased, feeling the alien sensation of bodily desire spread through me, akin in many ways to the bloodlust that has been my carnal focus for so many centuries, but much more focused, and strangely more desperate. 

“Yes, my love?” I replied, dreamy as a mortal and enjoying every new sensation. When Amadeo didn’t reply, I forced my eyes open, hit with a momentary panic when I didn’t see him standing before me, but then… oh. 

There. 

On his knees before me, tucked up tight as a prayerful child, his fire dark eyes lifted and fixed on me. He looked transcendent there, his gaze loaded with unspoken words, ones I was tragically deaf to and needed to figure out through love alone.

 _Love me but take control,_ his eyes said. _Let me know I’m yours. That you’ve chosen me for this over anyone else. Everyone else._

“Tell me what you need,” I said, so quiet the words were nearly lost. I heard my heart pounding in my ears, heard the oceanic rush of blood inside of me. I had thought of this moment, the breath before it was all to start, and I never once arrived upon the most romantic way to take him, to bring him in close to me. There were no such thoughts in me then, no anxieties or hesitations. I only sought his desire on where I should begin.

He watched me with a most considering face, the rose soft enigma of him enough to drive me utterly mad before he even spoke. His hands seemed to float as they reached for me, his fingers as fine as any woman’s and infinitely more familiar, and I simply stopped breathing when he gathered up the long fall of my robe and pulled it above my knees and farther, exposing the hot line of my cock to the warm air of the room.

“I wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his hands on my thighs, framing it, his eyes not straying for a single second, “I dreamt about this part of you and what I might do if you let me love you this way. I wondered what you liked. What you tasted like. If I could possibly ever please you--”

“Amadeo, you please me without effort,” I said, though my hands were restless and the hunger in me for every inch of his exquisite flesh were enough to nearly drive me to violence. “But it is yours, cherub. At long last, it craves you just as the rest of me does.”

I noticed that his hands were bare of rings this evening, the detail only coming to me because the right one lifted and wrapped gently around the base of my cock, tugging it until it stood straight up, veins pulsing along the length, the little fount at the tip glistening.

I nearly closed my eyes again but I fought it, and nothing in the world could make me look away at the sight of him there, his lashes long, inky brushstrokes over his round cheeks, his mouth soft with wonder as he watched the slow progress of his hand up my length and then back down again. I gritted my teeth and strained my hips up, unsure of what sensations I could achieve with my movements.

“I was good at this,” he said softly, remembering. He licked his lips and glanced up at me, bringing my cock to his bottom lip and letting it rest there against the plush center of it. I wanted to tell him that he still is, but I didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare break the spell. My hand drifted forward and sank into the untamed density of his hair, curls gathered in my palms and spilling from between my fingers. 

He took me into his mouth and I came up off the chair entirely without meaning to, pushing my hips and forcing me through the damp cavern of his mouth and into the tight clutch of his throat. I had done this before, of course, had taken my share of lovers of both sexes in my life as a man, but it had been centuries. Thousands of years. In essence I was a virgin again. And my Amadeo was undoing me.

He made a soft noise as he struggled to take me as deep as I sought, and I restrained myself long enough to dislodge from his throat and return to the softness of his tongue, to the sure suction of that glorious mouth. There was saliva clinging to my cock as it resurfaced, on his pinked lips, and he settled in with his hands in his lap once again, a choir boy to my filthy priest.

Dark eyes met my own with perfect submission, the thickness of my cock stretching his mouth at the seams, but he seemed the picture of serenity. The permission to use his throat was written all over his angelic face, but it was the slow, sleepy blink of those black lashes that did me in.

The next few moments were unbroken bliss, no sound in the room but the crackle of the fire far to my left and the secret, internal sounds of Amadeo’s throat working around the greedy plunge of my cock. I didn’t dare breathe, couldn’t make a single sound. A handful of curls clutched in my hand kept me anchored, and I could look nowhere but his eyes, didn’t exist anywhere but inside his body and his very soul. Blood tears gathered in his eyes and slipped down his porcelain cheeks, and the sight of them propelled me out of my chair again, driving me harder into his throat as I stood up over him for the first time and let the decorative robe fall from my body, leaving me naked and too powerful as I bore down on him and used my strength for the first time.

“Yes, cherub,” I breathed, dragging him back and forth along my length with that same grip of russet hair, feeling the wet splash of saliva on my feet as it dripped from Amadeo’s mouth. If only our curtains were open and we were exposed to the city beyond, to the windows of the buildings nearby. They would see me using him, taking full advantage of this beautiful boy knelt before me, not wasting a single drop of him. But the very thought of another soul seeing him this way made me furious, made my hand tighten in his hair. 

He was right not to want Fareed or anyone else here. Perhaps he anticipated my jealousy.

I yanked him forward and kept him there, watching him breathe deeply where his nose pressed into the golden curls of my groin, feeling the faint heat of it. His eyes lazed in contentment as he swallowed around me, and I knew then that I had never loved him more. It was impossible.

It took tragic little effort to lift him off my cock and to his feet by his hair, and his arms were around me before I could reach down and gather him up onto my body, his mouth still parted and leaking the results of his hard work.

I licked his neck and his chin clean before diving into his mouth with my tongue, and I drank from him as hungrily as I ever had, only this time I tasted the sea, the strange tang of my own cock, and the precious warmth of Amadeo beyond it. He was weightless in my arms as I crossed the room with him and made for the bed, and the way he suckled on my tongue made my stiff prick pulse, ravenous as it was to be inside of him.

The bed was still unmade, on Amadeo’s orders to his mortal staff, and his back hit the red sheets silently only seconds before he took my weight on top of him. He spread his legs for me as easily as he had when he was a living boy, only this time I was urgent to be exactly there, between them.

Being inside of him was a sudden obsession I wasn’t sure I could ever be cured of again, injections or no.

“Did he leave us any--”

“No need,” he said quietly. I let him take my hand and guide it between us, my fingers seeking out his entrance and finding it slick and soft. Ready. I rested my forehead against his and exhale hard, feeling a tingle race through my lower body as if in warning that I could spend with nothing more than his words, than touching this sacred place with my fingertips. I forced myself to calm.

“Flannery,” he said in reply to a question I hadn’t asked yet, and his smile tasted like any imagined concept of heaven. 

“We’ll have to send her flowers tomorrow night,” I replied, only realizing how big my hands were and how very small his body was when I breached him with two of them, locking them in to the knuckles and curling up like I’d always done with boys, and its effect on Amadeo was exquisite.

“ _Master_ ,” he gasped, small hands clutching my arms, his thighs tight against me. He rocked up as much as my hard body would allow him, his eyes wide and desperately searching my own.

“I used to touch you like this, my love. Do you remember?” Keeping my fingers curled, I thrust into him slow and deliberate, teasing around and only briefly seeking out that place in him that stoked the fire in his entire being.

“Yes, Master. I remember,” he whispered, his arms winding around my neck again to hug me down to him, his face hiding against my neck but only giving bloodless kisses, his fangs kept behind his soft lips. “I craved your hands every moment of the day. No one could ever touch the places in me that you could reach.”

“Like this one?” I asked, my voice low with barely restrained desire as I pressed right up into the small, firm place inside of him that made him sob, a broken sound that echoed about the room and was surely heard outside of it. I wondered if Fareed waited at the door, listening for the sounds of our obsessive lovemaking.

“I need you. Father, I need you. Please. Please, Master, don’t make me wait any longer. I don’t think I can take a second more of being without you.” The words spilled from him like blood, the red streaks of tears dried on his cheeks joined by fresh ones. I was shocked by his need, humbled by it, to be the focus of such longing and from this complicated, beautiful creature. I didn’t deserve it--indeed I never had--but I was determined to please him, to not let him down in this. Not again. Not tonight.

I took myself in hand, my fingers damp from his soft, well-oiled insides. My eyes nearly fluttered closed. _He’d called me Father._

“Where do you need me, my child?” I asked, the head of my cock so very close to the loosened furl of his hole, the one that twitched and mouthed and seemed to reach for me. I wanted to savor this moment in permanent ways, wanted to live in an eternity of what I was about to feel, what was about to happen. It seemed a tragedy of unheard of depths that I couldn’t.

“Inside,” he said, his voice hitching, those burning eyes filmed in red. I leaned in to lick his cheeks, tongue dipping into the corners of his eyes to seek out tears yet unborn as I tightened my grip on myself and pushed forward, stunned at the effort it took to break through the small clutch of muscle that resisted but finally allowed me entrance.

He kissed me roughly, his mouth finding mine just as I began to feed my cock into him, and I felt the sharp edge of one of his fangs slice into my tongue just as I rooted in and pressed hard, silently proving to both of us that I was as deep as our bodies would allow.

I groaned as he suckled my tongue, feeling his body trembling beneath me as I adjusted to this new place, this new existence, this new knowledge of a boy I thought I’d known so thoroughly. There wasn’t a word in any language I’d ever known for what I felt, not a single one to describe the softness and heat and texture and pressure of him inside, so very deep inside where I was nestled.

I was overcome, and such vulnerability came over me that it suddenly seemed that I was the one being penetrated. 

“Amadeo,” I gasped, the word exhaled hotly against his slack mouth. “Oh, my darling. My angel. Amadeo, Amadeo--”

“Master, fuck me,” he pleaded, supple legs wrapping around my hips, his youthful body nearly folded in half already. He kissed my face, kissed my eyes, tucked my overly soft hair behind my ears. “Fuck me.”

I was loath to leave his body for any reason or for any amount of time, but I was a slave to him, silken as his secret insides were around me, and my knees bent and pressed into the bed to let me find the right angle to start thrusting.

I went slow, not out of fear for his comfort but to savor with a vampire’s senses what he felt like, the exact suction of his body as I pulled out, the way it seemed to beg me to stay. I pushed back in just as deliberately, ending with a soft thrust that locked me in, one that drew a small cry from his swollen mouth and sent his head falling back against the pillows.

“Like that?” I asked, dipping down to kiss his throat, pushing his robe away to get to his collarbone, his small, peaked nipples. I was already arching, drawing back out of him and driving in again, my speed picking up without permission.

His arms tightened about my neck, legs hitching higher on my hips, and the sounds leaving him were caught between our bodies, the slick wetness of his hole working at my cock and the high-pitched, pained cries pushing out of his mouth. He could only nod, his throat working around silent words beneath my lips, but his approval spurred me on, drove me in harder, my knees shifting up closer to his body.

He gasped suddenly, seizing up around me as his nails dug into my back, his body arching hard.

“There,” he breathed, his hips frozen, mouth against my ear. “Right there, right there.”

I memorized the angle I was driving into him, sliding my hands down to grab hold of his thighs to keep him where he was. Nothing else mattered in that moment. I’d found it and was intent on taking him apart.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Amadeo,” I said nonsensically as I kissed his cheek over and over again, my mouth slack as I started to thrust into him with laser focus, maintaining a steady beat that lifted his slim body with each push. He was making sounds that would have been absolutely heartbreaking if they weren’t being made in passion, strangled, broken wails that came from deep within him, that I seemed to be knocking loose with each push of my cock. 

He nodded again, kept nodding as we rocked together, as I gathered him up once again in my arms and held him up off the bed and moved him on my cock. _Yes, yes, yes. Yes, Master, yes_.

I was pummeling his body with my own when I realized he was spending between us, letting out a cry that jarred me to my very soul, that did nothing but force me to thrust in even harder, giving him something to grip and bear down on as he convulsed with delicious strength around my cock. The dampness between our stomachs was warm and smelt earthy, and I nuzzled at his face to catch his mouth with my own and calm him with my kisses.

He shook feverishly beneath me.

I stretched out above him, pushing his legs to either side and luxuriating in the way he went lax and dreamy, in how much easier the push into his body was, how much more open he was to me.

He stared up at me with a lazy, pleased smile, his arms falling from my neck and landing crossed above his head on the pillows. I felt his heartbeat all around me where I was nestled inside of him, still hard and desperate for him.

“You’re so much bigger than I remembered,” he said with a spent sigh, his sweet cock softening on his pale stomach, a smear of wet cream glistening above it. “I feel you so deep. It seems impossible.”

I felt my cock throb inside of him arrogantly, my hips pushed hard against his small body to get me as far into him as I could physically be. 

“Where do you feel me?” I asked, my elbows on either side of his narrow shoulders, my hands free to push his blood sweaty hair back from his face. He took my hand once more and brought it down on his body, sliding it down until my fingers came to rest just beneath his sternum, the place where stomach turned into chest. My loins tingled.

“You flatter me,” I murmured, grinning as I leaned down and took his mouth, my tongue invading him just as surely as my cock was. I moved in him again, grinding rather than thrusting, taking my time to build up the heat again, wondering if I could draw more of that sweet cream from his little cock.

“Use me,” he said against my mouth, his feet sliding soft over the thick flannel sheets, his knees lifted, legs hooking over my shoulders. He stretched out under me, delicate fingers playing along the carved wood of the headboard, touching blindly at the angels and the flowers there. “Ride me hard and come as deep as you can.”

It seemed impossible then that he was anything other than a young boy, that this was a sin of a whole other kind, my little nymphet of a child begging to be debauched by his godly Master. And I would be lying to myself if I said that hadn’t always appealed to me, that the very thought had me leaking into his snug, clutching body and pushing forward so that his ass was tipped up, his little body folded in half beneath me.

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight in a possessive embrace so I could feel what it did to him when I dropped all sense of decorum and started to fuck him just as he demanded.

He let out throaty, aching little shouts that weren’t dampened by the velvet curtains, each one coming with every drive of my body against his. I aimed for his sternum, for his ribs, for his very heart, gritting my teeth and slamming up into him with all the brokenhearted, consuming love I’d always felt for him, not worrying that I was going to harm him, that we were going to break the bed, that the others were going to burst into the room, concerned that I was destroying him. 

He was mine, and I was doing to him what I pleased.

His small hands were pressed against the headboard now, braced there to keep from being shoved up against it as I used his ass, and I slid both of my hands beneath his pillow and grabbed his hair at the crown of his head, pulling back hard enough to expose the curve of his throat to me.

I drove my fangs into his throat, tearing his flesh in my haste, snarling when the hot draught of his precious blood spilled over my tongue. I drank from him just as greedily as I fucked him, and I was sure that I was breaking his bones, shattering his hips and crushing his ribcage as I drained the life out of him, but he simply linked his ankles at the nape of my neck and held onto his own feet with both hands, so tight and so tiny and so perfect under me, and I was stunned when I felt his hole flutter as he came on my cock for the second time, every part of his body clutching at me, keeping me in.

When I came inside of him, it seemed my very soul left my body.

I understood suddenly why humans were so mad for this, why they went to absurd lengths to have these brief moments, to feel these fleeting, intense things; because people like Amadeo exist, because this is worship in its purest form, because beings such as my darling boy are born for such devotion.

I swallowed in great, thirsting gulps. He was still beneath me, quiet.

I nicked my tongue and sealed the gash in his throat, drawing back with blood smeared on my lips and dripping from my chin. I was momentarily mortified by my frenzy.

He was paler than death, his eyes closed just as peacefully. He was breathing, deep, slow lifts and falls of his chest, the sound of his heart steady in my ears while my own continued to race. He was smiling faintly, his arms loose about his head, fingers lightly curled. Blood from my mouth dripped on his white chest. I raced to lap it up, and continued down to lick up his cooling semen, curling farther to suckle at the tip of his pink cock. I stayed locked inside of him like a dog, refusing to leave.

He whimpered softly, trying to shy away from my feast on his pretty cocklet. I growled a little and latched on harder, my hips pressed against him firmly, my cock barely softening at all.

“Cruel Master,” he mumbled sleepily, tensing with each suck of my incessant mouth, but he didn’t resist me.

“I always loved the taste of your cream,” I told him, tonguing the dilated slit and seeking out more of that nectar. “I would suck on you until you cried for me to stop.”

“I’m not above such things now,” he replied, pushing at me half-heartedly, but I knew him. Knew that he enjoyed the pain, the struggle. Enjoyed my strength and how easily I overpowered him. I pressed a hand to his throat and one about his wrists, applying pressure to both as I curled down over him and sucked his cock, my own struggling to stay in him, to keep my spend where he wanted it to stay.

I watched as his face slowly turned red, as he ceased fighting against me and sunk back into the bed, his delicious cock fitting easily in my mouth along with his snug little sac, so I nursed at him until he gave forth precious little droplets into my mouth, his whole body shuddering, jerking beneath my grip, and finally going utterly pliant.

He’d lost consciousness.

I released him and kissed up his slack body, licking inside of his open mouth while I rearranged us on the bed, cradling up behind him and staying nestled inside of him, waiting for him to need me again. I wrapped my arms about his slender waist and kissed the curls at the back of his head, the nape of his neck. 

He awoke in my arms, and the sigh that left him was euphoric.

“After we rest, Master, I have a request.”

“Hmm,” I managed, my eyes already closed, face buried in his hair.

“There are chains made of Maharet’s hair on each of the posts of the bed. I want you to tie me up and do every cruel thing to me you can think of.”

I felt myself harden inside of him, and I could tell by the way he arched his back that he felt it, too.

“You’re determined to give poor Fareed a heart attack,” I said with a kiss to his jaw. 

“We live in a house of vampires,” he replied, yawning and snuggling back into my arms. “They can all hear and telepathically see everything that’s going on in here.”

My eyes flew open in horrified alarm.


End file.
